That Sunrise (it brought me back to life) - A sort of Christmas CS FF
by high-seas-swan
Summary: The first thing Killian notices about the woman across the street are the colors decorating her skin; bright yellow, fuchsia, and cobalt. He thinks about going over and introducing himself. He thinks about it for awhile. A few days. Until one morning, he can't think of anything else because she's there, in his gallery in an oversized t-shirt and polka dot pyjama pants.


Killian closes his eyes against the lone beam of late afternoon sunlight sneaking through the buildings lining Main Street, Storybrooke. The mid October sun fading earlier every day. The rest of him is cast in shadows that mirror his darker, tired thoughts. He tosses his pen aside, abandoning his correspondence to the Maine Art Society. The planning for their joint exhibition will wait. Instead, he stretches out his legs, and leans back in his chair, forcing deep breaths in through his nose. He rests his hand and hooked prosthesis against his stomach, but before long, his fingers are absently massaging the skin above his brace.

His damn wrist had been causing him pain all afternoon and despite his efforts to soothe the ache it persisted. He pulls in another breath and lets it out slowly, imploring his body to relax. What did Dr. Hopper say? Try not to focus on the emotional reaction. Breathe mindfully. Focus on other sensory details.

He almost scoffs as he had in Dr. Hopper's office but he reminds himself it has worked from time to time and so Killian tries to clear mind and counts backward from ten. Just as he is reaching three, a rumbling diesel engine interrupts his countdown. He pops an eye open as the sound cuts and a door slams across the street.

For a moment, he only sees color: bright yellow, crisp white, fuchsia and cobalt.

He sits up, something telling him to take notice. He is out of his chair before he's given it much thought, and rounds his desk to get a better look outside, the soreness in his wrist momentarily forgotten.

Across the street stands a woman, blonde hair cascading down her back -

A surprised laugh stutters past his lips as he watches her tip forward, her jean-clad ass on display as she gathers her mess of long blond hair into a loose bun atop her head. She stands, hands on hips, head tilted back, examining the brick building before her. Her white tank top contrasts the colors that bloom down her right arm. He is too far away to make out the designs, but it doesn't stop him from trying. His curiosity growing.

She rubs her colorful arms, as if suddenly aware of the chill in the air and pops back into her car. She comes out with a red leather jacket, slipping it on quickly. He finds he's still intrigued, still drawn to the brightness, and he watches her study the building, cataloging the details with her phone until a familiar pickup comes to a stop behind the yellow Volkswagen Beetle. The woman turns, smile clear even from across the way before she quickly wraps her arms around the man from the pick up in a tight hug.

He's only a little surprised to see David Nolan, the town sheriff. Only a little because there had been recent whispers of the sheriff's sister out there in the world. Not that Killian was inclined to listen to town gossip, having experienced enough of his own. Either way, Granny, the town's matriarch, had shut down any chatter with a cuff to the back of Leroy's head and a steely-eyed gaze for anyone else.

Killian smiles at the memory and focuses again on the pair across the street, their attention now on the backseat of the little Beetle. He notices for the first time that it is packed with boxes.

He begins to wonder if he might he have a new neighbour? Should he go over and offer his help? It would be a perfect opportunity to introduce himself, and appreciate her colors up close. He's inclined to see if he can paint her cheeks the same pink that decorates her arm. He may be a little out of practice but he figures he has a little charm left in him yet.

Just as he takes a step towards the front door, an unexpected pain from his wrist pulls him up short and steals his breath away.

"Dammit."

He clenches his fist against his thigh and closes his eyes, trying to resume his deep breaths. He pictures the sea, he pictures calm waters lapping at the side of a ship and lets his fist loosen and opens his fingers one at a time. As the pain ebbs on his opposite arm, he refocuses on the world around him and in a fleeting moment, catches the eye of the woman across the street. Or maybe he just thinks he does, because before he can wonder further she is calling something out to the sheriff, a box on her hip as she disappears into the building.

Perhaps he'll go over tomorrow, he thinks, and warily lowers himself back into his chair.

 **xo**

"Has she called the police on you yet, mate? I think the sheriff's her brother, would be a quick call."

Killian very nearly drops the mug he was just bringing to his lips. As it is, some of the tea sloshes over the rim, singeing his hand and dripping onto his paperwork.

"Christ."

He cuts a glance to the front door to find Will Scarlett, best friend and part-time prat, leaning against the doorframe. Will offers him a big grin before walking in, touching anything and everything he can get his hands on. Killian would point out that he's asked him not to do this but it didn't work the first hundred times, he knows it won't work now. Instead he soaks up some of the spilt tea with his sleeve before settling against the edge of his desk.

Absolutely not paying attention to the woman across the street.

Definitely not noticing how lovely she looked, dancing to whatever was playing through her earbuds, as she touched up the paint on her front door, long scarf catching in the breeze.

"You break it, you buy it," Killian finally states as Will's finger reaches out dangerously close to the newest piece he'd hung that afternoon.

"What? This finger painting?" Will asks, but stuffs his hands in his pockets. Killian rolls his eyes.

"Stop acting like you aren't cultured. I know you just took Belle to the new exhibit in Boston. She said you both loved it."

Will shrugs but at the mention of Belle, he brightens.

"We could double date." He raises his chin across the street. "My fine self, Belle, you...and the mystery girl," Will says with an impish grin.

Killian feels the tips of his ears heat up as he waves his friend off. He turns to busy himself with his papers, stacking and carefully placing them at the corner of his desk.

"I haven't even spoken to her yet."

"That's not very neighbourly of you."

Killian looks over his shoulder, partially to tell his friend to sod off, partially to plead with him to understand but, he doesn't appear to need to. Will knows him well enough, knows the pain Killian carries, knows his hesitations.

"I know," Killian finally mumbles. Will comes to stand beside him.

"She could be a terrible person," Will offers as they both look out the window.

"Utterly horrible," Killian agrees.

His vibrant stranger launches into an air drum solo before doing some sort of ninja kick, nearly throwing herself off balance. He can almost feel the laughs that shake her small frame.

"But she could be great."

"Yeah," Killian agrees, a little sad, a little resigned.

Will shakes the change in his pockets.

"Wanna go throw some bowling balls? We can probably sweet talk Anna into giving us Leroy's lane. See him grumble a little."

Killian laughs but nods. "Why the hell not?"

He looks out the window a last time and in the fading light he thinks he sees her looking back.

 **xo**

Killian is watching the white drop sheet, dotted with paint from past projects, settle over the floor when the front door chimes. He checks his watch; it's too late for Leroy, too early for Will, and not likely a tourist at eight-thirty in the morning.

He casts a last glance around the empty room and feels the first beat of excitement thrumming in his chest. It's a blank canvas; art will soon fill the space with emotion and color, new people will pass through his doors.

He steps out into the main gallery and freezes.

Color and light stand near his front desk in an oversized t-shirt, polka dot pajama pant and a thick wool scarf wrapped around her neck. Up close, he can now see that flowers and shapes decorate her right arm, while only a few fine lines graced her left. He wants a closer look. He wants the blonde hair to spill from the bun that sits precariously on top of her head, he wants to tell her as much as he likes looking at the colors gracing her skin, she should be wearing a coat - it's- his eyes glance outside, yes, it's snowing.

Killian clears his throat, and the woman spins, her fingers pulling away from the camera they had been dancing over. She'd fit in quite well with Will, he thinks.

Color rises high on her cheeks. He grins, the blush lovelier than he could have imagined. Blush or is it just from the cold? He would like to think it's a bit of both.

She recovers quickly, a bashful smile settles comfortably on her lips before she crosses the room, hand extended.

"Emma Swan. I moved in across the street last week."

Her hand is chilled in his, but her grip firm.

"I saw."

"I know."

It's his turn to blush, with no excuse of the great outdoors. It appears he hasn't been as stealth in his observing as he thought, but he is unable to look away from her perceptive green eyes.

"You like to sit in your front window most afternoons. I noticed too," her words are accompanied with a shrug and a smile she tries to bite away.

Her fingers slip from his much too quickly for Killian's liking, and she turns to face the front of the gallery.

She glances at him over her shoulder but his words are caught somewhere in his throat, so she continues her casual survey of the room. He watches her instead, his whole world feeling a little off kilter.

"Killian Jones," he finally exclaims, cringing immediately at the volume of his voice.

She turns, linking her hands behind her back and meanders closer. She raises a brow.

"That is, I'm Killian Jones and, uh, welcome to the Nautilus Gallery. We carry mostly local art, with a few exceptions. Coastal artists that spend their summers here for example, and I was just beginning some prep work for an upcoming show. Did you want to look around or..." he trails off, looking around the room before drawing his gaze back to the woman who is now fighting a smile.

"Did I want to browse while in my pyjamas?"

"Oh, well, I didn't really notice, I mean, yeah," Killian rambles, hand itching to scratch behind his ear, but before he can, she reaches out to squeeze his arm. She touches him just above his brace, fingers soft and gentle. His breath catches at the unexpected contact, but she seems unaware of the effect she's having on him.

"It's ok, I know I look a little crazy."

He finds his voice a little quicker this time.

"Comfortable," he amends.

She snorts, and Killian couldn't be more delighted.

"Weird."

He tilts his head to the side, and studies her. He wants to reach for her hand, maybe brush his lips across her knuckles. Killian wants a lot of things but he's learned it's not usually in the cards for him, so instead he jams his hand into the front pocket of his jeans.

"Beautiful."

He does allow himself to enjoy the way her eyes widen, the blush spreading to the apples of her cheeks, and it was definitely a blush this time, it mixes with the light dusting of freckles across her nose.

"Smooth," she whispers, and it's his turn to shrug.

They watch each other for a few weighted beats before she puffs out a breath and returns to scanning the room.

"So, I think I made a mistake."

She takes a few steps back, but Killian, hopeful to keep the moment going waves her off.

"Nonsense, what can I help you with?" he asks.

She hesitates but finally decides to explain.

"Leroy mentioned I could get coffee here. I'm still in boxes and I can't think straight without my caffeine, but it's okay, I'll head over to Granny's."

She retreats further, but Killian is quick to hold out his hand.

"Trust me?"

She tilts her head in study.

"Maybe?"

He waits patiently, hand extended. After a moment, clearly coming to a decision, she gently slips her hand into his with a small nod. He takes the opportunity to run his thumb over her pulse point, eyes dancing over the bright designs. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, he keeps his study brief but focuses in on the three adjoined squares tattooed in her skin, the first a buttercup, the second a wave and third left blank. He's curious to know how the story ends, but shakes his head, ignoring the flow of questions that pop into his mind, it's none of his business. Instead, he walks them back towards an old armoire. On a wink he drops her hand and with a little bit of added flair, he opens the weathered wood doors to reveal an elaborate coffee machine, mini fridge, and cups.

"What even…" her words trail off as she peeks around his shoulder.

He chuckles and begins to prepare a cup, trying and failing to ignore her warmth as she stays close, peeking over his shoulder.

"Leroy stopped by one morning, a few weeks after I first opened two years ago. I think he was just snooping for information on the new stranger in town, but to be honest, I was a little lonely," he pauses to glance back, and at her understanding gaze, he continues, "and eager to make a good impression. So, I offered him a coffee. Can't get rid of the man now, comes by two or three times a week. He told his friends and they pop in sometimes as well. So I just went with it. Milk?"

She shakes her head and accepts the black coffee with two hands.

"That's sweet of you," she says and he watches her close her eyes, features relaxing at the first taste of the bitter drink. He rubs his chest where his heart seems to flutter to life beneath his navy button down. His heart and mind still trying to make sense of this beautiful, colorful stranger.

Emma, his brain prompts. Pretty, vibrant, enigmatic, Emma Swan.

Her eyes pop open as if hearing his fanciful thoughts.

"And would you like to be rid of me?" she asks quietly, taking a step back.

"Absolutely not," the words fall quick and breathless from his lips. He barely recognizes this long lost part of himself. He figures he can question it later, and instead concentrates on keeping the conversation going. "What brings you to Storybrooke?"

Emma turns to look out the front window, and he follows her eyes to the building across the street. Brown paper covers the store windows, a 'Sorry We're Closed' sign still hanging in the front door. The storefront has sat vacant for months, and he hopes she isn't just residing in the upstairs loft.

"Family, a change of pace." She shrugs. "And tattoos."

Killian nods but pauses, mouth slightly open in confusion as her words catch up to him.

Her eyes dance with amusement over the rim up her cup.

"Pop-up shop. Ugly Duckling Designs, for a few weeks," she says relenting. She doesn't allow him a reply, and he senses it's quite on purpose, "See you again tomorrow?"

It's behind another sip, green eyes that don't stray from his.

"I look forward to it."

"Thanks for the coffee, Killian."

"Pleasure is all mine, Emma."

He quietly congratulates himself on the uptick to her lips. He did that.

He watches as she walks away, a vision in polka dots and color. She slows and pauses at the front door, holding up her left arm in a hesitant wave. It's then he is finally able to make out the fine lines that grace her forearm. It looks like a sunrise.

 **xo**

The crates had arrived just before closing, so it had been easy to put off the task until the next day. Easy to slip into his quiet apartment above the gallery and heat up a bland bowl of tomato soup. And if he glanced out the window at the small shop across the street, a shadow moving behind the papered windows while he waited, so what? It wasn't like he had anything else to do.

But today is a different situation. Today he needs to get through this shipment and he isn't any further ahead than he'd been an hour ago. Stuck in a loop; open a crate, glance at the artwork, look out the window, eye the time and lose his place on his list. And repeat.

At least that's the pattern until the front door across the street opens, then he is on his feet and propelled into the front room. It's only as he's standing there, waiting, does he realize he hadn't thought this through. He internally curses himself and tries to make it to the counter. Except it's all a little too contrived, the awkward lean, nothing in hand. Killian knows it and by her smile, so does Emma.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Pfft, no."

She braces her hands on jean covered hips, head tilted to the side.

He won't admit it, he won't.

"No, I was just, hanging out. Here, um, thinking."

She drops her hands and slowly crosses the room until she's leaning on the counter facing him. Chin in the palm of her hand, the pom pom of her hat falling forward. He taps it back and brushes a few snowflakes away.

"Really?" she asks, exaggerating her pout, and he shakes his head, looking to the ceiling briefly before falling back to her lips.

"Maybe."

He relaxes at her victorious smile.

"Good."

She leaves him with a cheeky grin to prepare her morning coffee. Killian hesitates. While he can generally charm, and move about his gallery with confidence, he's suddenly unsure with Emma. Even though she walks in with a smile and confidence, there's still a cautious air about her, one he recognizes in himself, and so he wants to be careful. It's about more than charming her. He wants to know her, and just maybe, for her to know him too.

She comes back to the counter with her coffee and inquisitive eyes.

"Show me what you're actually supposed to be doing?"

He could do that. They could start there.

"I can do that. I just received a new shipment."

He likes how her eyes widen with excitement, there's genuine interest in his little shop. He leads her to the room filled with new artwork and they don't notice as the hours slip by. Killian too busy answering her questions, Emma, curiously peeking into every crate. And when she finally settles on the floor with his ledger in hand, an offer to help easily falling from her lips, something warm and new settles in his chest.

Yes, he thinks, he really could do this.

 **xo**

He should have expected it sooner, she is the sheriff's sister after all and she has been spending a lot of time in his gallery (and this town _loved_ to talk). So he should have expected it but when David Nolan actually walked into this gallery he was completely thrown. Is completely thrown.

Does he pretend to not know the real reason why the sheriff is currently standing in front of him? Should he try and sell him a painting?

It's a testament to his naval background that he doesn't flinch at David Nolan's silent study.

It's a testament to Emma Swan, that he completely forgets the man is even there when she rushes into the gallery, pink cheeked and breathless, chilled air following in her wake.

He feels the steel leave his spine and the smile that spreads across his face is automatic. It only grows as she crosses the room with a wink and comes to a stop at his side.

"Morning, love," he says easily, eyes flitting over her face.

(He chooses to ignores the small scoff from across the room.)

Before she has a chance to respond, David finally speaks up.

"Are you authorized to sell coffee? You may need a permit."

"David, really?" Emma asks with the shake of her head.

The man shrugs, as he eyes the different sleeves of coffee, inspecting the flavors.

"It's free, mate. Just trying to give back to the community a little but I can always check."

"You don't have to do that," Emma replies quickly.

He drops his hand to her hip to give her small squeeze.

"It's okay," he whispers but freezes at David's narrowed stare. He drops his hand and makes his way to the coffee machine. "What would you like?" he tries instead.

David hesitates, but points out a dark blend and Killian busies himself with making the coffee. He breathes a little easier and offers a smile to Emma when David decides to wander the gallery.

"So what are your intentions -"

"DAVID!" Emma shouts, exasperated at her brother's antics. She moves away from the counter and joins Killian.

"He worries," she stages whispers, and grabs the coffee, stalking across the room and all but shoving it in her brother's hand.

"Of course I worry. Wouldn't you if your sister disappeared for years at time."

"I never disappeared," she scolds.

David harrumphs. Killian stays quiet.

"I didn't," Emma assures Killian.

"It's fine," he mouths, not wanting her to worry. He knows all too well about turbulent pasts, about wanting to be alone for awhile. He doesn't need her to explain.

"Oh, this is where I proposed to Mary Margaret," David says suddenly, eyes wide, gesturing to a painting. "How,-"

"Oh no. You don't get to harass Killian and then try to buy something from him," Emma interrupts, steering David away. "Even if it would make the perfect Christmas gift for Mary Margaret. Maybe you'll be nicer next time."

Killian wants to protest, he is in the business of selling after all but he's also trying for the right impression, and so he decides it's best to try another angle.

"Please come back any time, Sheriff Nolan. For coffee or for the art, you're more than welcome," Killian offers as Emma ushers David towards the exit.

David mumbles something but he doesn't catch it.

"Pardon, I didn't catch that?"

"I said you can call me David."

Emma's eyes dance as she looks back just before they leave.

It feels like a small victory.

 **xo**

David does come back. Although he appears content to leave Emma and Killian alone to their early morning meetings, dropping by in the afternoon instead. And if Emma said something to her brother, Killian is unaware, but grateful all the same. He doesn't need an audience for his bumbling flirtations. He can't help it, not when she comes in, almost every morning, still a little sleep rumpled, still a little cautious. It does things to his heart. Things that he tries not to blurt out as soon as he sees her.

(Stay awhile? Stay forever?)

Killian shakes the thoughts from his head, lest the Sheriff read his mind, and focuses on the man, once again studying the painting across the room.

"You know, despite what Emma said I can sell that piece to you."

David actually cracks a smile and glances out the front window to where Killian knows Emma is busy putting the finishing touches to her little shop.

"I'm glad she's found a," David hesitates, finishes his coffee and turns back to Killian.

"Yes?"

"I'm glad she's found someone."

"Oh well. I mean," Killian struggles to find words, and he blushes, actually blushes. Dammit.

David chuckles, dropping his empty cup in the trash bin and nods towards to the painting.

"You know it _would_ be the perfect Christmas gift."

Killian breathes a small sigh of relief. This he can handle.

 **xo**

He's distracted again, this time by the light streaming in, perfectly framing the woman tucked into an old, oversized wingback chair, sketchpad perched on her knees. He wants to tell her (again) that she's lovelier than any of the art in the gallery, or anywhere, really.

He wants her to ball a scrap of paper from her pad and toss it at him, like she's grown accustomed to doing over the last few weeks when he actually voices his thoughts.

But she's focused on her sketching, glancing up every so often at a particular set of photographs and so he tries to do his job. He works to ready the room for the upcoming show, except the lighting is perfect and his fingers itch to reach for his camera.

"Stop staring," she mumbles, not taking her eyes off her sketch pad.

He shakes his head and gets back to his task, moving one painting to the opposite wall and breezes by, leaning in over her shoulder.

"I was just taking a moment to lament the loss of your polka dot pants. It's been awhile since they've come out to play."

She rolls her eyes.

"We both know you appreciate the view these jeans provide. Don't lie."

He eyes her salaciously and is rewarded with a laugh but before they can continue their teasing a throat clearing interrupts them.

Killian turns.

 _Right, Leroy._

And he's staring at Emma. Emma raises an eyebrow right back.

"You work here now or something?" the man asks, as he heaps sugar into his coffee.

"No, why?"

He casually sips his drink.

"You're always here."

"You're always here," Emma responds petulantly.

Killian watches the back and forth, wanting to interrupt but knowing Emma can hold her own.

"No, I'm here a few times a week, but every time I look in, you're here," Leroy points out, using his cup to point at Emma. Emma unfolds herself from the chair, closing her pad.

"Are you spying on me? Do I need to tell my brother? You know, the Sheriff?"

Killian, steps between the two.

"Listen, sister. I'm just speaking the truth," Leroy throws over his shoulder, unaffected by the threats, ambling out the front door.

"See if I ever let you in my shop," Emma mumbles as the front door clicks shut. Killian tries to hide his smile, but the punch to his shoulder reveals he didn't succeed.

Emma is gathering her things before he can apologize.

"Hey, hey, don't let Leroy get to you, love."

He tries to bend to meet her eyes, but she's busy sliding her arms into her bulky back coat, almost disappearing inside.

"Emma."

She finally pauses. Looking more apprehensive than he's ever seen her.

"Sorry, I don't like people talking about me. Probably why I was so hesitant to come back here. Am I here too much?" She doesn't wait for his answer, seeming lost in her own thoughts, "It's just I'm inspired by the art, and I'm trying new styles. It's also taking a little longer to get set up than I'm used to. I usually just link up with someone else's shop. This is the first time I've set up my own place."

He debates how he wants to respond. For a woman that is confident and forward on the surface, she still holds a lot of her truths close to her chest.

"So perhaps something like a more permanent shop?" he asks.

She hesitates, and he forces himself to turn away, to pretend his focus on the paintings and not waiting on her every word.

"Oh, well, no. I don't think. I just – I was missing my brother and his wife. This is a good opportunity, for just a little while. It's close enough for my regular clients to make the trip here," she trails off, and he can't help himself.

"I think your fans will go wherever you are. I was on your Instagram. You're booked until late spring."

He looks up. She's staring at him.

"What? I was curious. I'm just wondering, why go to all the work to set up, just to leave again?"

He tries to keep his tone light, but he knows he's touched something deeper. He knows because he understands the sudden tightness in the set of her shoulders, the way her lips turn down.

But she's apparently practiced in avoiding conversations such as these because as quick as the look appears, it's replaced with an unfamiliar smile and a sway of her hips as she approaches him.

"Looking to see if I could add to your ink? Seeing if my skills were up to par?"

Her fingers trail across his forearm, over where she must have spied the old ink marked into his skin. He pulls back, as if burned, and just as quickly she's back to herself, moving away, mumbling an apology.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm – Emma."

But she is already waving him off, clutching her sketchpad against her chest.

"I'll see you later, Killian."

And she's gone, a blur of blonde and snowflakes, on her footprints left in the snow, taking all the color with her.

"Dammit, Leroy."

 **xo**

Her shop opens the next day. He tells himself that's why she doesn't come by. He thinks of bringing her a bear claw to celebrate, maybe bottle of wine but when the entire building goes dark by five, he makes up other excuses as to why it's a bad idea. She's tired, she's out, she's busy.

By day three, it gets harder to lie to himself.

He focuses on his paperwork. He definitely does not focus on how in a short amount of time, she's become a fixture in his life.

His phone pings with an email alert, a reminder of his upcoming hotel stay. He has to go to Bangor for two days to finalize the details of the impending show.

He should drop in before he leaves. He can congratulate her on opening. That's it, he'll drop in right before leaving.

 **xo**

He doesn't.

He leaves with a long look at the dimly lit shop, eyes focusing on the elegantly written Ugly Duckling Designs sign swaying in the wind.

Bangor is cold and overcast. He thinks of her the entire time. His sunshine back in Storybrooke.

He shakes his head at the thought and flags down the barkeep

At least the rum is decent.

 **xo**

The rum had been a terrible idea and the complementary headache the next day is a deserving reminder. And so it has to be absolute madness that leads him to believe that work will help after the long drive home.

At least he has jogging pants now. It's about all he has, he thinks, as he stares at the mess of frames, photographs, and notes surrounding him.

Killian groans and carefully leans back, stretching out on the hardwood floor.

There's a dull ache surrounding his wrist, and he wrestles his brace off, pulling the straps from under his sweater. Once free, he shucks his prosthesis to the side and lays back, looking up.

He gets lost in the lines of the box beam ceiling, stares at the recessed lighting until he sees spots. He closes his eyes and almost drifts off but the chimes at the front door bring him back to the present.

Well past business hours, the sound should warrant some kind of reaction but he can't even be bothered to move. When he hears nothing else, he assumes he misheard. It's only when the sudden strains of You're All I Want for Christmas, reach his ears, does he sit up.

There is a brief moment where he thinks he might be being robbed, but quickly snorts at the thought of a musical thief.

He rises gingerly, and carefully makes his way to the doorway, not sure what to expect -

It's her. She's there. Emma.

His heart nearly beats out of his chest. She's as beautiful as ever, hips swaying to the music as she unscrews the cap to a thermos.

"Apologies, ma'am, but regrettably we're closed."

He leans against the doorframe, and he has to give her credit, she barely reacts. Although, for all her quiet determination, he spots the small tremor as she pours steaming liquid into two cups. It gives him the courage he needs to step closer.

"That's a shame. It's Christmas Music Monday."

He tilts his head taking her in, and he finally sees the nerves when she looks up. The way she can't keep her eyes on his.

"What is Christmas Music Monday?"

She licks her bottom, worries it for a moment with her teeth and takes a deep breath..

"It's where we listen to Christmas classics, drink tea and dance."

"That's definitely not a thing."

Killian crosses his arms and it's only then realizes he's left his brace in the other room. He tucks his arms tighter to his chest but she doesn't seem to notice. Instead, she abandons the tea and crosses the room swaying her hips with each step. She meets him halfway, hands reaching out for his forearms. She squeezes him tight

"Sure it is, we're doing it aren't we?"

She shimmies in place.

He won't dance. It's been a long day. He's tired. He's confused. He's half in love with her.

But she can't just -

She turns in a small circle and offers up a tentative smile. He's already lost the battle but it doesn't mean he can't hold out a little longer

" _You're_ doing it, love. I'm watching and," he trails off as a more upbeat song starts and her hands land on his hips.

He holds his breath as she thinks over his question.

"Well," she starts, and he feels her hands urging his hips to move right to left. He looks to the ceiling and moves with her direction, just a little, barely, but when he looks back and her smile is wide. He can't help but move a little more. "There we go, now we are both doing it, so it's a thing."

"Oh, well in that case."

He catches her by surprise, gripping her left hand in his right, spinning her out and gracefully back in. She lets out a small squeak of surprise before expelling a breathless laugh, as she grips the front of his sweater.

Neither let go and they sway back and forth while her laughter quiets and her eyes watch him solemnly.

"Tired?" she asks, her fingers loosening from his sweater to tentatively reaching up, and trace under his eyes. His lashes flutter closed.

"I'm ok," he answers softly.

Suddenly there are arms around his neck, and he is pulled into her. He can feel the small puffs of warm breath against his neck before Emma tucks herself under his chin.

"I'm sorry I was awful the other day."

Her words are quiet but crack with emotion. He brings his arms up and holds her closer.

"It's ok."

"No, it's not. It's something I do when I feel cornered and-"

Her words trail off when he leans back forces her eyes on his.

"It's ok," he stresses again, "I was picking at something. I get it."

His heart settles when she finally nods, and of course, it picks up again when she buries her face in his sweater.

There is a beat of silence, before a new song starts up.

He has to chuckle, "Nsync? Really?" he asks and feels her shake with her own laughter. She shrugs before pulling back.

"Want some tea?" she finally asks, timid and yet, with a new openness in her expression.

"I'd love some."

 **xo**

Theme nights suddenly become a thing, besides Christmas Music Monday there's Taco Tuesday and Thirsty Thursday.

"You know, Swan, you don't need to make up names to see me. You can just say, Killian, I can't bear to spend any time apart, please hang out with me."

The grape hits him square in the forehead moments later, and he catches the small pout on her lips before she turns away.

He finds the grape in his lap and pops it into his mouth between quiet chuckles. He watches her string lights in her front window, enjoying the way her shirt rides up, revealing more color curving around her back.

"Hey, Emma."

She turns, finished with the lights, her eyes ready to roll.

"What?"

"Do you fancy a Storybrooke Saturday?"

Her eyes light up.

"What's that?"

He gets up and leans over her, adjusting the way the lights hang, enjoying the way they cast a warm glow across her face. Enjoying how she stays in his space.

"Well, it's where we pretend to actually be a part of this community. We could start with grilled cheese at Granny's, then take a walk along the waterfront. We can try and peek in and see what Leroy is hiding in his garage or we could start right in the center of town," he pauses his explanation to rest hand and hook on her shoulders. "Close your eyes," he whispers in her ear, and takes a moment to appreciate the way her dark lashes flutter against pale skin.

He spins her, once, twice, three times and steps away.

"I'll spin you three times, and you choose the direction we head off into."

Her eyes pop open to find his voice, her smile wide.

"Let's do it."

 **xo**

As the hours slip further into the night and the music eases into muted instrumentals, Emma settles her head on Killian's shoulder, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Their Storybrooke Saturday, a success, leaving their cheeks tinged pink and their bodies with a welcome exhaustion. They sit on the floor of the gallery, resting against the wall, legs stretched out.

"You need a couch."

Her voice breaks the stillness but he doesn't startle, he turns over her statement in his head.

"Right in the middle of the gallery? I'll get right on it."

"Thanks."

He looks down and finds heavy-lidded eyes watching him. He likes the way her long lashes brush her cheeks with every slow blink. He especially likes the light press of her lips into his shoulder. It helps something fall into his place in his chest. Without hesitation, he lets his lips linger against her forehead.

He feels her fingers play with the cuff of his sweater and looks down. He watches the name stained into his arm alternate from view and he's surprised to find her touch against the tattoo doesn't trouble him, it's in that moment, he knows he's found something special. Something he wasn't sure he would ever find. Someone.

He takes a shuddering breath. _It's time._

"I have only one tattoo and it doesn't make for a joyful tale. You must hear a lot of sorrow filled stories in your line of work."

He pulls away and tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, holding his breath. He's not sure how he wants her to respond, he's not sure exactly what he wants to say, so, he waits.

Her eyes don't stray from his, she doesn't rush to fill the silence nor does she tell him he doesn't have to explain, and she doesn't move away. She seems to think over his statement.

"Some days I do, but I also hear stories of strength and courage. I've learned there can be hope and light in the darkest times. Sometimes the sting of the needle, the act of commemorating a memory brings people peace, and I see their burdens lift when the leave my chair. Some days it doesn't but I can listen."

He takes her in and thinks of his own experiences. He remembers the pain from the needle barely breaking through the pain in his heart. He remembers clamping his mouth shut, and turning away from the artist, in no place at the time to talk. And finally, he remembers shutting out his well intentioned brother, and saying goodbye to the only home he'd ever known. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall with a dull thump.

"I had never met anyone like Milah. She knew who she was and what she wanted with such conviction and passion. I was in awe."

He feels Emma's small fingers finding his, and she gives him a squeeze. He's grateful for the anchor she provides.

"Where did you meet?"

"In the Royal Navy. She bested me in almost every exercise and task. I loved it. It drove me to be better, to work harder. My brother would have preferred my head be solely on the job. We had many heated debates on the matter. He was my commander and I know he only wanted what was best for me but sometimes, he could be terribly stubborn."

"Could?" she prompts.

He turns to her and opens his eyes, knows the smile he puts on doesn't reach his eyes.

"Can. I'm sure he still is but," he trails off. He hasn't spoken out loud about Liam in - he pauses to think, almost two years. It surprises him to put a number on it. "We haven't spoken in a few years. Not since Milah's funeral."

He shakes his head, knows he's not explaining things clearly, but the memory still tightens his gut and muddles his brain. It's only when Emma pulls their joined hands to her chest, and he feels her steady heartbeat that he feels grounded and ready to continue.

"Liam lent us out to a sister ship to aid in a practice maneuver. Unfortunately, the weather took a turn, the commanding officer would not listen to his crew, and he was determined not to hear reason from me," Killian trails off, hand flexing in Emma's, waiting to find her heartbeat again. "I later learned he had a history with Milah. You think he would have been more careful with someone he supposedly loved aboard. But I don't believe he cared for anyone. He ran the ship aground, tore a hole down the side. Milah lost her footing in the chaos, I was thrown as well as I tried to reach her," the exact details of the moment get stuck in his throat, and suddenly he needs to move.

"Sorry," he mumbles as he drops Emma's hand and pushes to his feet.

He paces to the front window.

"I lost my first love, I lost my hand, and in my anger, I lost my brother too. I'm a right failure."

He takes a deep shuddering breath, staring out into the darkness of the winter night, nerves not letting him turn around. Not sure what her reaction will be but before he can give her an excuse or a way out, arms wrap around him from behind. He stiffens a moment but as her arms tighten around his waist and he feels her press her cheek to his back, his entire body sags under her embrace.

He drops his forehead to the cold window pane.

"You're a strong, inspiring man," her soft words are said into his sweater, forehead pressed into his back.

He sniffs in disbelief.

"You barely know me."

Killian regrets the words as soon as he says them, in part because she pulls away, but because he knows it's a lie.

"Turn around," Emma's words are soft, but there is no misunderstanding that she means them. He turns but can't look up, that is, not until he's forced to by her gentle hand on his cheek.

Her gaze is determined, her lip is being worried by her teeth. He finds he actually may never look away from this woman again.

"I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm so sorry," her words don't ring hollow like so many before her. She means them, he can feel it and so he gives her a slight nod. "And don't tell me what I know in my heart to be true. I know you. You're a good man, Killian Jones."

She searches his face, her fingers trail from his cheek to his neck and finally settle over his heart. He closes his eyes to the sensations and finally feels a little bit of peace settle over him.

When he opens his eyes, she must feel it too because she offers him a small smile, which he finds himself mirroring.

"Sit with me a little longer?" he asks, nodding towards their previous spot on the floor.

Her answer is clear when she takes his hand and gently tugs him back across the room and he swears another part of him has been put back together.

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **I will be back with Part 2 later this week.**

 **And let me take this moment to wish you all a happy and healthy New Year!**


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